Respite From The Fire
by hillbythetree
Summary: Richard Church has never had an easy life.  This is the story of how he was broken.
1. The Reign of Screaming

**tw: strong language, domestic violence**

His mother hid them as best as she could. Even in the brunt of Utah summer, she would don the heavy sweaters and long-sleeved shirts, hiding her skin and her feelings under the dark fabric. She smiled and talked to her friends at church gatherings, and even though she winced once or twice when bending down to pick up one of her many children, no one noticed a thing. Indeed, she looked happy, the pinnacle of what a good Mormon wife could be.

At home, it was a different story.

In the safety of her house, the joyful smile faded and her shoulders drooped. She walked as if she was on eggshells, crossing the floor without a sound, as if she feared waking the ghosts that slept under the floorboards. After sermons on Sundays, Richard would watch his mother drift through the front door and into the bedroom, the only place in the house that she had expressly forbidden him to enter. Once, he had followed her silently, slowly peering in through the crack in the door, childish curiosity outweighing the fear of the belt that his father wielded.

Richard saw her remove the shirt, body turned away, saying nothing. At that age, the nudity meant nothing to him, but he noticed something else- the patterns of bruises that discolored her back, blooming like sadistic rosettes on the translucent skin. They were dotted here and there, some solitary, some in clusters, fading from purple to blue to green and giving the impression that some infectious disease was rotting her flesh away. He watched as his mother grazed the bruises with trembling fingertips, touching and feeling them as if she could not believe they were real. He watched as her shoulders shook and her head bowed in utter defeat, in utter hopelessness. And as she leaned against the mirror and uttered a lonely cry, a sound so deep and despairing and filled with true, tangible pain that it pierced his innocent heart, Richard watched it all and could not look away.

He remembered that scream. There would be many others.

The Church household had never been a harmonious place, least not in Richard's memory. His mother was the kind one, a gentle Mormon girl that had dated once, married, and had her dreams snatched away. His father was a tall, roughly hewn construction worker with muscles from clinging to steel beams all day. He was always sullen and brooding, whether it was over finances or where he could sneak away to drink the next day. He would crawl to the pub on Friday nights and stumble home early the next morning, eyes unfocused and reeking of whiskey's acrid perfume. On these days, Richard's mother would say nothing, as if by averting her eyes she could pretend that the problem didn't exist. Later, Richard would wonder why she never stopped him, why she never did _anything_, but at the time it was only routine. Go to school. Come home. Hide the children. Leave Daddy alone.

At the time, it was manageable. Daddy works hard, sweetie, let him rest. Daddy's out on a late job tonight, go back to sleep. Daddy was having bad dreams last night, honey, that's what the screaming was about, everything's all right, everything's okay.

And he believed it. Richard, in his childish naïveté, clung to his mother's excuses, repeated them over and over in his head during the nights when the screams filled the house. He ran through them until he could recite them like scripture, grasping at them for comfort when he could hear the cries through his bedroom walls. Daddy must be having bad dreams tonight. Everything's all right, everything's okay.

The next day, everything would seem normal again. Richard would run eagerly into his father's arms and show off his new Lego car, and his father would smile and ruffle his hair and call him "my little man", which made Richard so proud. More than anything else, he wanted to be his father's son, his daddy's big boy. Once or twice, he even got to tag along with his dad to the construction site and wear a hard hat and speak into the walkie-talkie while he sat on the curb, kicking his heels against the pavement and watching his father set sparks to the metal on the fourth story. The other workers nodded knowingly and patted him on the head, and it made him deliriously happy to be singled out as his father's child. When he was older, that would change.

It had started slowly at first. Once a week, drinking with work buddies, stumbling home, ranting and raving at the wall or outside in the garage. The only damage was a shattered bottle or two, tossed in a drunken fit at the wall, the crystalline shards swept up and thrown away before the children awoke. Back then, the problem was easy to hide, the broken pieces gathered and hidden before outsiders could ask questions. And what would answering them help? The general consensus in the family seemed to be that there was no explanation, only silence. Just as ignoring a cancer distances the condemned from their death, so the Church family distanced themselves from the problem.

But just as ignoring a cancer leaves the disease untreated, so the symptoms began to become more obvious. A stockpile of bottles appeared in the basement, hidden from the prying eyes of church friends in the beat-up fridge in the corner. Richard's father began to drink on Wednesdays after a hard day at work, or on Sundays when the minister was gone and the silk tie could be loosened and thrown away. One day, when Richard showed his dad his macaroni portrait, the man bent down to kiss Richard's forehead like always, but his breath stank of alcohol and cigarettes and made the young boy wrinkle his nose in disgust. He didn't show him anything after that. He was afraid of the strange odor and what it could mean.

By now, Richard was old enough to connect the dots, old enough to understand that something wasn't right. He tugged on his mother's patchwork skirts, and when she looked down at him with tired eyes, he asked her with his innocent voice why Daddy was so angry all the time. She blinked slowly and shuddered, as if there were monstrosities hidden beneath her eyelids. "Pray for Daddy," she whispered. "All we can do is pray."

And Richard prayed. He prayed every night when the slaps echoed through the house, closed his eyes and wished so fervently for Daddy to get better, help Daddy get better. But it never got better. It only got worse.

It was a morning in late summer, and the sun hid behind billowing dark clouds that blanketed the sky as they did when nature refused to play by seasonal rules. Richard, who had just turned eight, was playing with his toy trains on the floor of the kitchen, surrounded by his three younger brothers and baby sister, their mother chopping vegetables and watching the children out of the corner of her eye. Their laughter filled the room like soft music, dancing around the glowing lights and making their mother smile- until she heard the truck.

The truck, with its sputtering, ancient engine, choking on the way up the driveway. It was still morning. _Too soon_.

They heard the wheezing truck sputter to a stop, heard the heavy thunk of the door slamming shut, heard the crunch of boot treads against gravel. At the sound, Richard's mother tensed up, the knife clattering out of her hands and onto the smooth stovetop. She froze, and it was clear that something was wrong. Her eyes were wide and empty, a dark storm brewing in the back of her head.

Richard paused in his playing, confused. "Mommy?" he asked, "Mommy, what's the matter?"

His mother did not turn around. Her body was rigid, unmoving, as if someone had changed her muscles to stone. "Hide," she muttered, her voice a wavering breath that made Richard scrunch up his face as if his ears were mistaken. "Mommy, what do you mea-"

She whipped around suddenly, fear discoloring her face. "_Hide the children now!"_

He recoiled, tears pooling in his eyes, biting his lip to keep from crying out in fear. "Mommy!" Outside, the footsteps crunched closer, grinding gravel into the ground on their way to the door.

His mother heard them, and shivered. She raised a trembling finger to the children's bedroom, the open door beckoning them to safety. "In the bedroom," she hissed urgently, shoving Richard's little sister into his arms. "Quickly!"

She herded them into the little room, the little boys looking confused, the baby gurgling and reaching out to touch her brother's face. A single tear fell onto the baby's cheek, and she widened her eyes in surprise; another, gleaming like a diamond, bloomed on her chin, and she squealed before wiping it away.

Then their mother shut the door, and the light from the hallway ceased its illumination of the room. The children huddled together in the darkness, muted by their fear, waiting breathlessly as the front door opened and slammed shut. One of the smaller boys started sniffling, tears pooling in his eyes, and Richard drew him close.

"B-be quiet," he whispered, trying to sound brave in spite of the tremors in his voice. "It's going to be all right. Everything's okay."

Erratic footsteps in the breezeway, their dull thumping muffled by wallpaper, wood, and insulation. Their father, home from work too early. The children could hear the gruff exhale, the squelch of shifting leather, the crystal _clink_ of bottle against table. At the sounds, Richard crept towards the door, his heart quickening. The click of the television, the buzz of static, the incoherent mumblings of news anchors through papered walls. He pressed his ear to the door tentatively and could barely make out the remnants of his mother's soft voice.

"Robert, is everything all right?" The question was laced with fear; her voice, pleading, powerless, as if she knew that asking was hopeless already.

The man shifted abruptly in his seat. "No, everything is fucking not all right!" A pause, another clink of glass against wood, and his father continued in a more subdued tone. "Got- got laid off today. Fucking assholes, they told my boss, those fucking snitches…"

Richard's mother grew a bit braver, her voice emboldened by anger. "Were you drunk on the job, Robert? I can't believe this! How are we going to pay the mortgage now? You know we're already behind on payments-"

"Shut up, bitch!" Richard heard a yelp and a great symphony of shattering glass as the empty bottle missed its mark and connected with the wall instead. There was a deep sigh and a shifting as his father sunk deeper into his seat. Encouraged by concern, Richard turned the doorknob slowly, pushing the door open just a crack. Seeing nothing, he slid out into the light of the hall, sneaking closer to the ambient sound of the television. If he backed up against the wall, he could just make out the image of his father, blurred eyes staring unfocused at the television, mouth twisted in an unpleased scowl.

Suddenly, the man started forward, and Richard cringed in terror of being discovered. Thankfully, though, it was the television that the man was gesturing wildly at, the television that was causing him to utter strings of vile curses.

"… Fucking lost again, dumb shits… couldn't sink a shot if he was being guarded by fucking midgets!"

Out of the corner of his eye, Richard saw his mother rising up from behind the couch, taking a wary step towards the drunkard. His chest beating wildly, he opened his mouth to warn her- to scream- to do _anything_- but his vocal cords were paralyzed by the botulism of fright. He could only watch in horror as she rose up beside him, fists clenched, an inferno in her eyes and sleet in her voice.

"Robert!" she exclaimed, and the man swung to face her. "Robert, that's enough!"

There was a rushing, a muttering of "I'll teach you, bitch," and Richard's mother flinched as if she could avoid him, but his fists couldn't miss and there was a smack of knuckles against cheek and she cried out like a knife had pierced her chest. Another quick movement, another thud, another helpless cry as she tried to escape but was challenged by steel-toed boots that struck her like sledgehammers. Her helpless cries permeated the air as the man swung again and again, each time burying his fist in her soft flesh with a sickly thud. They rang in Richard's ears as his body trembled and eyes stung, an anguished chorus, punctuating each second that he stood still and did nothing.

Thwack. A single tear ran down Richard's cheek and was absorbed into his shirt. Thwack. He clenched his fists at his sides, fingernails digging into his sweaty palms, body shaking. Thwack. He closed his eyes and saw red.

Abandoning all hope of hiding, he ran forward, arms pumping, adrenaline rushing through his veins. "Stop!" he shrieked, as if the words of an eight-year-old boy carried the power to control the carnage. But, somehow, the blows did pause, as did the screaming. There was an eerie silence as his father's back straightened. On the ground, Richard's mother gasped for breath, her head resting in a puddle of scarlet that had dribbled from her mouth to pool on the floorboards. Richard stood with balled fists, biting his lip to keep from crying, his vision blurred by pooling tears.

Richard's father looked over his shoulder slowly, as if he could not believe that he was being challenged. As they made eye contact, there was something in his expression, something terrifying, like the devil had twisted his features to make him a demon instead of a man. Richard shivered in spite of himself. The man took one step forward. Then another. Ten feet away, and now his shadow blackened Richard's face.

On the floor, Richard's mother convulsed, her crumpled frame wracked by shuddering coughs. Still gasping, she raised a shaking hand towards her husband. "Please," she pleaded faintly, "Not him. Not Richard." Another step. Eight feet. Six.

The woman shuddered again. "Please," she whispered, her voice desperate, "have mercy! Not him, _please!_" Four feet.

Richard tried his best to keep his chest out and stared straight into his father's eyes. But there was something there, a dark wind, a moonless night, a grotesque black that made him shy away instinctively. Two feet. A stream of blood oozed from the corner of Richard's mouth and down his chin as he dug in with his teeth to keep his voice from faltering. In a fit of foolish bravery, he held up one little hand in the devil's face. "No!" he commanded.

Something tangible in the demon's glare snapped, and he rushed forward. On the floor, his mother reached out for him, crying _"No! Have mercy!"_ at the top of her lungs. A blur. The footsteps, barreling towards him. The whiff of whiskey and cigarettes.

A train slamming into his face. Falling back, into the whiteness, into the oblivion.

Then, the pain. Indescribable. Unimaginable. Heartbreaking.

And all around him, in the brightness, in the nothingness, was the reign of screaming.


	2. Better Than Home

He's in sixth grade when he discovers the library.

It's the first week of school, and Richard is trying to pinpoint his math class in the matrix of hallways and doors when he walks past it. Immediately, he stops, eyes wide, breath hitching. The girls behind him jump to the side and mutter something under their breath, but he doesn't care. It is all he can do to keep from pressing his face up against the glass windows like a kid by the candy store.

The moment he walks in, it feels like home. The faded lighting, the musty book-paper smell, the great expanse of bookshelf after bookshelf, enough books for a lifetime and maybe more. The young librarian behind the desk straightens and beams at him, brown eyes shining behind her thick-rimmed glasses. Richard flashes a shy smile at her and turns away.

From then on, the library is his sanctuary. During lunch, he hides in the fiction section, pulling novel after novel off the shelves and devouring them until his eyes blur and his fingers grow weary. He smuggles the books into his house in his beat-up Superman backpack and reads into the whispering hours of the night, covers over his head and a flashlight illuminating the page. He even carries them in the car, when the bumps and rattling of their old station wagon make it hard to discern the meaning of the ink on the page. There is always a book in arm's reach, its lop-eared cover begging to be opened and touched and explored.

There is no such thing as anguish on the rolling, lurching deck of the Hispaniola. There are no tears on the mist-choked streets of Dickens' London, where every stone is a phenom and every person is a mystery. The outstretched hand of Dr. Ransom beckons, and Richard grasps it, nodding. He is pulled away to the Silent Planet, millions of parsecs away from his fears and his longing.

The stories are his shield when the insecurities come knocking. He is blond and blue-eyed and good-looking, and that is enough to send strangers flocking to his side. They grab his hand and smile, and he smiles back, but there's something in his countenance, something dark and shattered, like his gaze is a broken window and he's trying to hold up the glass. They shy away in a flash of color, cutting Richard with their words and leaving him to wonder what went wrong. He binds the wounds with the pages, disguising the scars with a printed mask. After all, he cannot see or hear his problems when the world is hidden behind paper walls.

He does have a few friends, though. They don't talk much, and neither does he. At lunch, their table is completely silent, each head sunk into a book, an unspoken secret in the frenzied lunchroom. To others, it is strange. To Richard, it is a refuge. He has become deathly afraid that if he opens his mouth, he will not be able to close it, and his darkest secrets will come spilling out through his fingers and crack on the floor. He turns to novels instead, where the secrets are spelled out on the page and can be reread or crossed out or changed if need be.

But even the books cannot help him in the time between the final bell and the weepy hours of midnight's song. His father doesn't like him reading this much, as he points out over dinner, and Richard needs to get into sports or make some friends because he's turning into a soft loser and that is _not_ what he wants for his boy, do you hear me? Richard nods, eyes downcast, trying to hide his pain behind a shadowed face. Tonight, he will pose shirtless for the mirror in his bedroom and make muscles, trying to convince himself that he can live up to his father's expectations. For now, he only picks at his asparagus sin appetite, his head bowed in fealty. He knows better than to argue with his king.

He goes out for football at his father's request. The pads are unwieldy and too heavy, and the helmet makes him feel like he's stuck in a fishbowl. As he limps off the field after his first practice, his whole body cries out for mercy. But he can bear it- it hurts less than his father's criticisms. As he heaves himself into the car, his father claps him on the back, but the lactic acid in his muscles speaks louder than any pride he is feeling. His father talks about football on the way home, but Richard cannot hear him. He is fast asleep, lost in his dreams.

In time, his body strengthens, but his resolve remains the same. He tells himself that love for the sport will come with time, but that kind of passion seems so foreign.

But, for now, Richard can dwell in the one place that's never brought him down. Hands on the glazed-wood door, swinging it open. A rush, the heady smell of paper and glue. It's history, science, adventure, a time machine for the mind, a drug for the senses. He takes a step in, and something unfamiliar bubbles up inside of him. Happiness. A stranger, welcomed in with outstretched arms.

The librarian glances up, eyes widening in recognition. "Oh," she says in her musical voice, "You're back. Anything I can do for you?"

Richard approaches the desk, meeting the chipped paint at chest-level. "Did you get it?" he asks, his face shining with anticipation, braced for the windfall.

"As a matter of fact," she says, bending down to reach for some hidden prize, "we _did_." A shuffle, and the hardback book is pressed into eager hands, the unruined dust jacket whispering eagerly against skin. Richard traces over the embossed words, as if he were reading them with his fingertips. _Drinking Coffee Elsewhere_. A whole new world to be explored and conquered.

He traces a path of memory to his familiar chair, his gaze intent on the novel's glossy cover. As he falls into the cushy fabric, the book opens as if it understands the adventures to come. The ruffle of paper calls to him, telling of new adventures far beyond any worldly comprehension. Richard flips to the first sentence. He inhales deeply, and plunges in.

He is lost in the book before he turns the first page.


	3. The Notes They Don't Hit

Arriving at sacrament services late only invites the stares. As the family shuffles down the aisle and into their regular seats, a few people cast their gazes back, feigning curiosity as if this was not a regular occurrence. Richard bows his head, preferring to focus on the white carpet rather than the embarrassment that has bubbled up to gnaw at his insides. The probing looks bore into his head as he grabs his little sister's hand and guides her into the aisle. He can't sit down fast enough.

They settle in their usual row, and the stares liberate their captives at last. Richard sighs and looks down the line, at his younger siblings lined up like neatly-groomed ducks. His little brother kicks his feet back and forth impatiently until a stony paternal glare stills him and makes him shrink farther into his chair. Richard pats his knee comfortingly and looks farther down the row, leaning forward to catch a glimpse of the statue that is his mother.

She's a pretty profile, a bust that would be stunning save for the mouth's downturned corners. Dark glasses obscure her eyes- but Richard can remember the black-and-blue eyeshadow that his father painted there last night. He leans back, sneaks a glance at his father and the half-lidded eyes that betray a night of hard drinking. Not much of a threat; at least not today. Richard knows that he can't let his guard down, but the relief makes him breathe a little easier. His family will not suffer today. In the face of uncertainty, he must cling to what little security he has.

The organ in the front of the room creaks at first, as if it had skipped its vocal warmup, but soon its heavy tones permeate the air without a misstep. People around the family shift and whisper to each other, pulling their hymn books out of purses and from under their chairs. A man in a suit steps to the front of the room- Mr. Silbermann, who had volunteered to conduct sacrament today. He rests his book on the carved podium and flips it open, exploring the pages with a learned hand.

"Please turn to page 9." His pleasant voice carries through the room. "'Come, Rejoice'. All rise."

The congregation stands at once in their spots, the whisper of flipping hymn-book pages underwriting the music. Richard notices his dad rise unsteadily out of the corner of his eye; obviously, Bud Adams hadn't been too kind to him the previous night. His little sister gestures to him, and he helps her find the right song in a book that seems almost half as big as she is. She thanks him, and he smiles and pats her head, almost losing his anxieties in the sweet stare.

The music sings out joyously in the air, and the churchgoers do the same with only a little less gusto. Richard smiles and lets the notes flow around his lips and over his tongue- he loves this part of the service, even if he can't do justice to the tune.

_Come, rejoice, the King of Glory speaks to earth again_

But as he sings, his smile begins to curl downwards. He remembers last night in a flurry of screaming and cursing and running away; the crashing of tossed chairs and broken bottles begins to drown out the music in his mind.

_Truth bursts forth in radiant light, showing all the path of right_

He looks down at his mother again, standing stock-still at his father's hip, and suddenly, he is furious- furious at his father for beating her, furious at himself for not being able to stop him, furious at the other church-goers for doing nothing when a storm of fists descends upon his family every week.

He turns his eyes upwards, looking towards his Heavenly Father in his dwelling place. _Why, God?_ he wants to shout. _Why are you doing this? Why can't you help my father?_

_Great, oh, great is Christ our Savior. None can stay his hand_

_Jesus!_ he cries. I need you, Jesus_! I'm so confused, and I don't know what to do. I need your guidance, Lord!_ Richard pauses, realizes that his fists are clenched. He takes a deep breath, tries to push the anger down. _I'm sorry, Heavenly Father... please, give me answers. I need answers._

_Sing, rejoice, the King of love speaks to Earth from heav'n above_

The song ends. Books flipped closed. A smile on the first speaker's face as she shuffles her notes and taps the podium nervously. In the wake, Richard listens. He searches the message, the readings, anything that could give him a sign to what he can do.

_Please, Jesus,_ he thinks desperately, _please help me end the hurting. Please help my family. Please._

He prays with all of his heart, all of his mind, all of his strength. He prays for a miracle. He prays for a sign.

But beyond the rustling of book-pages, all he receives is silence.


	4. Falling

One year passes into another with excruciating slowness. Soon, autumn leaves make their whirlwind mosaic on the ground, and lines of buses sidle up to the side of the school, ready to push their charges away and into the world. A chilly breeze whistles through the oaks and down Richard's neck as he trudges toward the building. He shudders and clutches his threadbare coat tighter to his body.

His feet are numb, but he makes each step last as long as he can. It's like walking to an execution, and Richard would rather brave the poor weather than present himself to death so easily.

The doors swing open, and Richard is enveloped in warmth. But it's not the comforting type of heat, like the glow of a fire or the embrace of a thick blanket. It's the uncomfortable warmth, the kind that makes his palms sticky and his tongue dry. The school is a desert, and Richard is the lost traveler, crossing the never-ending dunes in search of water. The very thought makes him swallow involuntarily.

They say that it's different, but everything's the same. There are the same students, with their same friends and their same personalities and slight variations on the same clothes. There's the same school, the same teachers, and the same subjects. And there's the same sense of loneliness, the quiet little sorrow in Richard's chest that follows him through his day and down every bustling hallway where the people he will never know turn their backs as he walks by.

But, strangely enough, he likes it. That is, he likes it better than being at home. When choosing between two Hells, he prefers the chilliness to the boiling, seeping volcano that bubbles over periodically with his father's temper.

And though he is alone, he is safe. He tries not to associate the two, but his mind has increasingly bound the conditions together. Distance, for him, is a blessing. After all, it's easier to dodge a charging bull when you see him coming from a mile away.

...At least, that's what he used to think. But solitude has a way of making people yearn for the unattainable. Wrapped in the darkness, Richard is untouchable. But wrapped in the darkness, he is unable to touch.

It's still the first week of seventh grade when Anika Donner waltzes into his life. Tall. Pretty. Lithe legs from dancing, a sweet smile that compliments her bright face.

Richard can't tear his eyes away.

It's so strange, the feelings he gets when she breezes past. Like a heat in his chest- not dry desert heat, but something more gentle, a tropical breeze or the soft glow of the sun. More than anything, he just wants to look at her. To hear her musical voice. To make her laugh. But when she looks his way, he glances down, almost ashamed of what he is feeling.

It doesn't help that his tongue gets locked up when she glances in his direction. In math class, when the other students are thinking about fractions and decimals, Richard thinks about Anika Donner and her eyes, as green as springtime. He knew that something like this would happen eventually, judging from what his bishop and his Sunday school teachers said about love, but he still feels unsure. _Is this love?_ he thinks. _Is this what love feels like?_

While the other students are puzzling over fractions and decimals, Richard is thinking about love.

He wonders if this is how his father feels about his mother. Probably not, he reasons. If this is how his father feels, why would he want to hurt her? Why would he laugh at her helpless screams? Why would he toss insults at her, and when words failed, toss fists and chairs?

Richard tries to picture sweet Anika cowering on the floor, her arms flung up in a fruitless attempt to shield her face, dribbling blood from the corner of her mouth. As soon as the image forms, he waves it away. It's too horrible to think about. Even imagining her pain somehow feels like a sin.

The vivid picture brings him back down to earth. Somehow, Richard knows that he will eventually hurt the sweet girl with the springtime smile. The very thought is devastating, and he cannot shake it from his mind.

He stares down at his sneakers and tells himself that ignoring these feelings is all for the best. He can't hurt her if he can't touch her. The only way to protect Anika is to pretend that she doesn't exist.

But once in a while, his eyes will drift in her direction, and he will stop his writing and think about love.


End file.
